The Viking's Captive Read Online Free PDF Page A

experienced before … something she did not want. She had seen twenty and five winters. There was no place in her life for a man. Not anymore. Not that he would be willing. Not that he would even look at the likes of her.
    But he
had
looked at her. Tyra had seen that. And a part of her thrilled at the glow of arousal she’d seen in his blue eyes … a glow that would have prompted a sharp punch in the stomach if given by any man in her company. The look of appreciation he’d given her was the kind normally reserved for one of her four sisters … never for her. She was too big, too crude, too unfeminine, too …
    Enough! I have no interest in this man, or any other. Not that way.
    And, really, the rogue would not be lifeless for long,she reminded herself. In fact, she would wager that the man, once he awakened, would be madder than a castrated bull at being bested by a woman. She had better restrain him now while she had the opportunity.
    She had just finished tying his wrists and ankles when she noticed those sinfully thick eyelashes fluttering open. Although he did not rise immediately from his supine position atop the wide table, she saw awareness in his blue eyes.
    “My lady warrior, you are in big, big trouble,” he said, low and ominous.
    Barely had the words left his mouth than the man—a man she had clearly underestimated—performed a move that would do the bravest Norse
hersir
proud. The loop of his arms went over her head, drawing her forward to land atop him. At the same time, he flipped them both over so she was the one flat on her back and he was the one leaning over her, belly to belly, thigh to thigh.
    Her guardsmen rushed forward to her aid, swords and daggers aready, but she warned them off with a sharp command, “Stay!” A good soldier knew when to pick his battle, when to proceed and when to yield. She’d chosen the latter course because the physician’s bound wrists were resting at her neck, both thumbs pressed against her windpipe. Before a blade could enter the knave’s back, he could choke her, or break her neck. Besides, she needed him alive if her father was to live.
    But it was humiliating to have been caught thus by the lout. He was not even an active warrior, as she was.
    He leaned forward, so close his lips almost touched hers. “Order your men to go out to the courtyard and await you there. Tell them to sheathe their weapons, carefully. We are just having a little … discussion.”
    “Stop choking me, you Saxon maggot,” she said. Butwhat she thought was,
Holy Thor, his breath is sweet and warm and inviting. I wish … I wish … nay, I do not wish… I do not wish…
    “I’m not choking you, wench. If I were, you would know it.”
    “I am not a wench.”
    “I am not a maggot.”
    “Hah! So you say!”
    “Do as I say,” he demanded and pressed his thumbs tighter.
    There would be bruising on the soft flesh of her neck by nightfall, and the brute well knew it. He was delighting in putting his mark on her.
    “Go out to the courtyard, all of you! Put your weapons aside,” she yelled out to her guardsmen in a voice they would know brooked no argument. “I am safe. The Saxon pig just wants to … talk.”
    “A pig, hmmm? Do you say I am malodorous? Or my facial stubble prickles you? In any case, your tongue outruns your good sense,
wench.”
He shifted his body atop her, letting her know that the bulge between his legs was there … for her. And that more than talk would be in store for her if he had his way.
    Despite his pincer grip on her throat, she tried to wiggle her body upward to escape the press of his masculinity.
    He just followed her—a sensuous, body-to-body scraping—and grinned wolfishly. What she’d accomplished, instead of escape, was the raising of her tunic hem. The only thing between them now was the fabric of her
braies
and his robe, and heat … the most agonizing, delicious heat.
    “Are any of these men your husband?” he asked.
    The question